RB: "No, I'm dead sober. I'm offering to sell my mortal soul to you, the devil, in exchange for a Cabinet position in the new administration."

S: "Thanks, but no way am I moving to Washington. It's much nicer here."

RB: "The job's not for you, dude; it's for me! Here's how the deal would go down -- I'd get the Cabinet post, you'd get my soul for all eternity. What do you say?"

(Sound of derisive laughter echoing through molten catacombs.)

S: "What would I want with a shriveled little prune of a soul like yours? Scumbags are a dime a dozen, guv. I'm in the market for decent, morally upright souls that, under certain circumstances, might be persuaded to change teams. Joel Osteen calls, I'm all ears. But you? I don't think so."

RB: "Are you sayin' I can't even make the cut? Geez, how sleazy does a guy have to be?"

S: "Rod, you should have come to me a year ago, before Lehman tanked and AIG went boobs-up. Now I've got more lowlifes than I've got cots."

RB: "OK, forget the Cabinet job. Say I appointed myself to Obama's empty Senate seat -- would you help smooth the way?"

S: "Your wife put you up to this, didn't she? I told you she was bad news."

RB: "What I need is money. This is a golden [expletive] opportunity. I'm not just giving it up for [expletive] nothing."

S: "Then go for it. Grab the Senate seat."

RB: "Well, here's the problem -- this prosecutor, Fitzgerald, he's been asking nosy questions. I was hoping you could use your incredibly malevolent supernatural powers to get him reassigned to, like, Guam."

S: "And what's in it for me, bucko?"

RB: "I told you -- my soul. Hey, it's still a bargain."

(Sounds of crashing thunder, more crackling flames and rising wails of misery.)

RB: "Sorry. Forget about Fitzgerald, OK? How about this -- there are some snotty editorial writers at the Chicago Tribune who want to see me impeached. If you get those guys fired, you can have my soul free and clear."